


push and pull

by jamesbuchanan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 01:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10232348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesbuchanan/pseuds/jamesbuchanan
Summary: Steve struggles to take what Bucky wants to give.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miraclemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraclemoon/gifts).



> this is a sorta-late birthday gift for sarah and this was also really fun to write
> 
> this fic takes place after the flashback in the winter soldier, when steve's mother passes.

Steve asked, Bucky answered. Except he didn’t ask so much as look forlornly at Bucky, waiting for him to read Steve’s mind like he does every time. With a look in his eye, a key in his hand, and his jaw set tight he silently pleads for Bucky to see through the facade. 

Steve pleads, Bucky gives. A strong hand on Steve’s shoulder, a gaze that lingers long after it is gone, and ten words that wrap around his heart and squeeze.

Steve walks, Bucky follows. He lets his guard down just enough for Bucky to walk past the front door and close it tightly behind him before it rises back up in time with the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place on the door.

Silence fills the room, the only thing that can be heard is the dull wheeze in Steve’s chest. Autumn has just begun to show in the warm colors of falling leaves and chilly winds, and creeping slowly behind are all the seasonal colds and flu Steve seems to catch each year. Bucky sighs, knowing this year will be different. This year he’ll be over at Steve’s every moment possible; checking on him and making sure he doesn’t die on him; playing his role and Sarah’s role in taking care of Steve so nothing feels lost. 

Bucky steps out of his shoes and loosens the knot of his tie. He looks over to Steve, who is sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, chin resting in his hands. He sniffles in the way he does when he’s holding back tears, not in the way he does when he’s attempting to breathe through a stuffed up nose. He doesn’t cry though, doesn’t let a single tear spill over and drip past his chin.

“Steve…” His voice comes out soft, the concern bleeding through. Steve looks up with narrowed eyes and Bucky wishes he kept his mouth shut. Even in times where it’d be okay to let his walls down and let out the emotion he’s keeping pent up, Steve won’t have it. He’s never been one to take kindly in being treated with fragility, even with his jutting ribcage and bird-boned wrists.

Frustration is fruitless for Bucky because it’s just in Steve’s nature to be like this. He doesn’t want his words to hit as hard as Steve’s look does, but he knows it’s the only way it’ll get through.

“I’m staying over tonight. Don’t want you doing anything stupid. Are you hungry?” He doesn’t miss the pleased smile that briefly appears on Steve’s lips as Bucky talks. He walks past him and into the kitchen, looking around the cupboards for something to eat after hearing Steve’s hum of “mhm” as he walked by.

There’s small containers of different kinds of foods stacked on top of each other in the icebox. They’re probably from the neighbors that came by to offer their condolences. By the looks of it, nothing’s been touched save for a tray or two being merely picked at.

Bucky pulls out what appears to be pasta in a red sauce and beings to heat it up. When he turns around from the stove, Steve is there, leaning against the kitchen table, picking absently at the edge of a paper resting on the table.

“Hey.” Steve slowly turns his head to the sound of Bucky’s voice. He crosses the few feet it takes to get to Steve and reaches his hands out, fingers curling around the knot of Steve’s tie. “You should change,” he says quietly, working the knot loose and slipping it off from around Steve’s collar. He hands it to him. “Go,” he says firmly. 

Bucky’s still staring down at his hands after the bedroom door has shut. He traces the lines in his palms with his eyes as if they hold some truth or future, telling him what comes next. He’s been able to handle a lot: Steve crumpled up in an alley, Steve on what appeared to be the verge of death, Steve hunched over in the emergency room waiting area the first time his mother was rushed there. This time feels different, if the angry twist of his gut tells him anything. 

He turns back to the stove, giving the pot of pasta a stir before looking for dishes. It’s not a struggle, Bucky practically knows this place inside out, and by the time he has two bowls (one with a noticeably larger serving than the other) set on the table, Steve is settling down in a chair.

Bucky takes a seat, pushes the bowl with more in it towards him. “Eat,” he says because he could guess that Steve probably hadn’t eaten all day, and wasn’t very responsive when Bucky met up with him after the service and offered to treat him to Anthony’s deli a few blocks over. Steve does as he’s told, doesn’t protest, and fills his stomach to Bucky’s concealed delight.

They’re silent over dinner, and it isn’t until Bucky’s got Steve’s head tucked under his chin in bed later that night that they speak again.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve mumbles against the hollow of Bucky’s throat. He almost misses it due to how soft it comes out, but he feels it against his skin. It’s soft, but tired mostly, and soon Steve drifts off entirely.

Bucky kisses the top of his head and holds him through the night. This is the calm before some inevitable storm, if the comforting warmth of their bodies pressed against one another tells him anything.

←→

In the two weeks since Sarah’s passing, Bucky can count on one hand the times that Steve’s been relevantly calm. Two of those times have been when Steve had just gotten back from his night classes at the college. The other two times have been after a slow make out session and the slight buzz from a beer and a half after Bucky got him to go out to the bar with him a few nights ago.

Most times excluding those, Steve has been extremely tense and easy to set off; a time bomb of sorts in which Bucky should keep his distance, but by now Bucky knows that’s damn near impossible. He can’t stay away, not when it comes to Steve.

Bucky does his best to keep up, does his best to not get frustrated too quickly. Steve is still in the wake of his mother’s passing who, besides Bucky, is all he’s ever had and all he’s ever known. And while Steve’s mood swings are sharp and unpredictable, he’s never once told Bucky to go home.

Bucky’s been staying with Steve for two weeks, using the pile of spare clothing he keeps in the bottom drawer of the dresser in Steve’s bedroom to change. Even with his job and even with the hour he gives to his family on Sunday for mass (which he brings Steve along with by the way) he’s walking right back through Steve’s door like he lives there. (In fact, he kind of plans on telling Steve that he wants to move in with him, he just can’t find the right time to ask. He’s worked the conversation out in his head a hundred and one times and each one ends in Steve isolating himself.)

When he steps through the door coming home from a job at the garage, he finds Steve sitting on the couch with a chipped mug full of coffee while he listens to the radio. The lights are off.

“Hey, Buck,” he says.

Bucky smiles to himself as he slips out of his shoes, takes his coat off, and hangs the spare set of keys up on the hook by the door. “Hey.”

“There’s coffee if you want some.”

“I’d love some,” he says warmly, moving towards the lamp. “Let’s turn some lights on, yeah?” He says, fingers reaching for the switch.

“Bucky, wait—“

The lamp turns on. Light illuminates the room. Bucky takes one look at Steve and his heart sinks. He’s got a shiner on his cheek, the kind that comes from those teenage Brooklyn-gangster-wannabes that hang around the corner in cheap suits and reek of cigarettes. 

Bucky’s fingers brush over the bruise, as the anger begins to boil. “Steve…what the hell happened?” Worry bleeds through his words and as soon as they leave his lips he knows that’s exactly what he did wrong.

The concern makes Steve close himself off; makes him stand abruptly and snap “I’m fine,” before stalking off into the bedroom.

The door slams shut and Bucky’s left frozen in place.

←→

Bucky keeps finding Steve in alleys.

Steve keeps coming home with bruises.

It makes Bucky’s stomach churn to know that there’s too many bruises for him to count. The biggest ones are on Steve’s collarbone, his ribs, his left wrist and the one on his cheek that has by now dulled, but not fully healed.

When he finds Steve hunched over against the brick wall between the corner store and the bakery owned by the Espositos when he’s coming home from work, he’s just about had it. Steve’s panting, clutching his middle carefully, trying to calm himself down. He hears Bucky before he sees him and even then all he sees is Bucky’s shoes standing parallel to his.

“What the fuck did you do?” Bucky grabs his chin, makes Steve meet his eyes.

“I’m _fine,_ ” he grits out, but the wince from the pain in his ribs says otherwise.

“Oh yeah, you’re fine. It’s not like your lip is bleeding or your ribs are bruised. _Totally fine,_ ” Bucky exasperates.

Steve hadn’t realized his bottom lip was split until Bucky mentioned it. As if on cue, there’s a metallic tang on his tongue, a taste that registers as his own blood and it makes him sick.

“I’m serious, Bucky. I’m fine.”

Bucky grabs him gingerly by the upper arm and practically drags them down the street to the apartment. “Don’t make me punch you, you punk. You hardly know what “fine” is,” he mumbles the last part under his breath.

He pats Steve down for the key to the front door. Coincidentally, he forgot to take his key with him before he went out, but it was a small job and he left in a rush so it slipped his mind. He gets the key out of Steve’s jacket pocket and grounds him when he sways a little too far back. Momentarily, Bucky softens. He tips Steve’s chin up to look at him. “Hey, stay with me. You need to go to the hospital?”

Steve shakes his head and Bucky makes quick work of getting the door open and guiding Steve inside. They go straight to the bathroom. Steve is sat down on the toilet while Bucky grabs the huge first aid kit from behind the sink.

He kneels in front of him, getting out alcohol pads and band-aids and ointment and gauze. He dabs at Steve’s lip with the gauze and Steve squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Hurts?”

“No,” Steve says, but it’s not very believable.

“You’re gonna have to get ice on it later.”

Steve grunts in response and says little else. He leaves it up to Bucky to patch him up, as he always does, and keeps his mouth shut. Though he’d never admit it, he used to be mildly afraid of Bucky’s reaction to seeing a new bruise or cut or split lip or bleeding knee from some kind of fight. Because Steve knows that Bucky knows he has a habit of not being able to back down from fights that will only get him hurt in the end. Now though, he hardly cares one bit about what Bucky thinks.

They’re quiet the entire time. Silence stretches over the span of twenty minutes, Steve occasionally wincing from his seat on the toilet and Bucky worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he works.

Finally, when he has the last bandage smoothed over Steve’s knee, the last smudge of ointment rubbed into his ribs, Bucky looks at him. His eyes are sincere, his voice is quiet. “You’re scarin’ me, pal. Why do you keep getting yourself into trouble like this?”  
Bucky watches Steve’s eyes narrow and gets ready for a futile argument. He holds Bucky’s eyes with a fierce look, his jaw set hard. His split lip does little to make him look as tough as he’s trying to be. “Did you ever think…that maybe…” he clears his throat before he speaks again. “Maybe I wanted it?”

Bucky wrinkles his nose up at the thought. It’s strange to see the crooked smile on Steve’s face at the question. To think that he was looking to get into trouble; he wanted to be in pain. “It crossed my mind,” he says weakly.

Steve sighs, nods, looks up towards the ceiling. “Figures. You have a way of always being in my head.”

“Steve,” he rests a hand on his knee, gets his attention back, “what’s this all about, really?”

“I think you can put the pieces together,” it comes out as a whisper. Bucky’s silent. He won’t say a single word, but instead have Steve explain himself. He lets him know that in the firm line of his mouth. “You’re such a jerk, making me say it, you know. ‘Cause it is because of my ma, it is cause I’d rather not cry about it. I’d rather not break down into fuckin’ tears in front of you. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I’m looking to get myself killed because I can’t handle the fact that the one person I’ve known my entire life is gone and not coming back?” By the end of it, his voice is back to the sharp, angered tone it’s been for weeks now. Bucky can’t take it anymore.

“You’re breakin’ my heart, Stevie,” a broken sigh follows.

Steve rises from his seat abruptly. “Oh, shove it, Barnes,” he rolls his eyes, pushing past Bucky out of the bathroom. Bucky’s on his heels, grabbing his shoulder roughly and turning him around to face him.

“Don’t do this again. You’ve been doing it for weeks now Steve and I can’t treat it like it’s invisible anymore. _Talk to me._ ” He holds Steve in place by his upper arms, stares him down. Steve returns the stare, just as heated and frustrated, waiting for Bucky to give in. Bucky doesn’t. “C’mon, it’s your ol’ pal Bucky,” he nudges gently.

Steve sighs dramatically. His shoulders slump and he leans into Bucky’s chest. “I fucking hate you,” he murmurs, resting his forehead on Bucky’s sternum.

“No you don’t,” his voice softens, one hand moving to Steve’s back to rub small circles at the top vertebrae of his spine.

“It’s strange, Buck. It’s strange coming home everyday knowing she isn’t.” Steve’s eyelashes are damp from squeezing his eyes shut to hold back tears. He figures Bucky knows he’s crying, figures he can feel some sort of dampness on his collar. He lifts Steve’s chin, makes him look at him and it’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing and shameful to have Bucky see him almost cry, to see him look so weak. Bucky wipes away the dampness under one of Steve’s eyes with his thumb. He watches him lovingly, not at all seeing Steve as weak or anything of the sort.

“It’s not wrong to be upset about her passing, Steve. You don’t have to hold it all in. Why do you think I haven’t gone home in weeks? I told you I wasn’t going to leave you here on your own, but you’ve been walkin’ around picking a fight with me when I know you don’t want to.”

Steve blinks at him. He looks confused. “Why do you think I haven’t told you to go home yet? I already have you around, s’all I need.”

But Bucky’s already shaking his head. “You’re not getting it. Or maybe you’re just lying to yourself. But you’re not giving yourself the comfort or closure you need. You’re not letting me in, Stevie. I feel like I’m filling dead space.”

His words do good in shutting Steve up for a moment or two. It’s actually quite surprising, considering the rapid-fire comebacks Steve’s usually capable of making. Finally, he says, “You’re not…filling dead space.” Bucky gives him an incredulous look and Steve sighs loudly in defeat. “Fuck, okay fine. God, I’m sorry okay? I don’t— This isn’t easy for me, Buck.”

Bucky pulls Steve back in, tucking his head under his chest. “I _know_ that and I’m tryin’ to be here so it’s not as hard as it already is.” It’s whispered and it’s tender and it makes Steve’s shoulders shake once or twice. Bucky rubs his back the entire time.

Bucky sighs, drops a kiss to the top of Steve’s head, says resolutely, “I’m with you till the end of the line, pal. I’ll keep telling you that till it sticks.” Steve nods against him, and they stay standing in the middle of the apartment for a while.

Steve asks, Bucky answers. Except that Steve’s pride does very little to let him verbalize the things he needs, so Bucky reads body language instead. So when Steve is finally on the verge of a breakdown, Bucky is there to tell him he can let it out and soothe the built up tension.

Steve pleads, Bucky gives. He finally chances a glance up at Bucky, eyes rimmed red, cheeks damp and lip split all to hell. He repeats a previous movement, wipes the stray tears from under Steve’s eyes with his thumbs. 

Steve walks, Bucky follows. To the kitchen where Bucky grabs ice from the icebox, wraps it in a tea towel and hands it over to Steve to press to his bottom lip. They soon find their way back to the couch where Bucky fiddles with the radio and Steve situates himself under the blanket thrown over the back of the couch. A melody begins to trickle through the speakers and Bucky lies down along the couch, his head mostly in Steve’s lap. 

Bucky eventually falls asleep and when he wakes to a smile from Steve any tension that once existed disappears.


End file.
